There’s the whitebox and pine on t… Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and… There is many another, but dearest… And the king of them all was the s… Then of stringy-bark slabs were th…

WE WANT the man who will lead t… The man who will pioneer. We have no use for the gentleman, Or the cheating Cheap-Jack here; We have no room for the men who sh…

’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood… His voice with grief was broken, a… He muttered, as that broken nose h… ‘It’s orfal when the p’leece has g… ‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as an…

From Woolwich and Brentford and… Oh, the Cockney soul is a silent… But out on the sand with a broken… And, with never a laugh, in a gale… Oh, send them a tune from the musi…

It surely cannot be too soon, and… It tones with all Australia’s tun… And so I bring an old refrain fro… And lift the good old words again,… She bore me on her tented fields,…

So you rode from the range where y… Through the ghostly, grey Bush in… You rode slowly at first, lest her… That you were so glad to be gone; You had scarcely the courage to gl…

He works in the glen where the war… And the gums and the ashes are tal… ’Neath cliffs that re-echo the sou… When the wedges leap in from the m… He comes of a hardy old immigrant…

You may roam the wide seas over, f… Sail as far as ships can sail, and… You may ride and tramp wherever ra… But the crowd has been before you,… For the Early Days are over,

A public parlour in the slums, The haunt of vice and villainy, Where things are said unfit to hea… And things are done unfit to see; ’Mid ribald jest and reckless song…

Let bushmen think as bushmen will, And say whate’er they choose, I hate to hear the stupid sneer At New Chum Jackaroos. He may not ride as you can ride,

Boys out there by the western cree… Who hurry away from school, To climb the spurs of the breezy p… Or dive in the shaded pool. right—When the world was wide

Republicans! the time is coming! Listen to the distant drumming! Hearken to the whispers humming In the troubled atmosphere. Ye are born to do the toiling;

They say that I never have writte… As a writer of songs should do; They say that I never could touch… With a touch that is firm and true… They say I know nothing of women…

Whenever I’m moving my furniture… Or shifting my furniture out— Which is nearly as often and risky… In these days of shifting about— There isn’t a stretcher, there isn…

The nearer camp fires lighted, The distant beacons bright— The horsemen on the skyline Are closing in to-night! My brothers, Oh my brothers!